A Proposition

Re-Boyfriend is a narcoleptic. This is not a professional diagnosis, but a logical conclusion based on countless events, including, but not limited to, being locked out of his apartment on more than one occasion because he will not wake the fuck up.

Sometimes he will come to after ten or so calls. Sometimes his roommate will be home and be so kind as to let me in. Sometimes, another resident will let me into the building and I will find the door to his apartment unlocked, presumably in anticipation of my arrival. Sometimes none of these things happen and I go home pissed off.

Friday night, Re-Boyfriend decided not to come with me to a friend’s party.

“I’m actually really tired,” he said. Uh-oh, I thought. “Just call me when you’re coming back here.”

“Will you be awake?”

“Of course.” That is another infuriating thing about his narcolepsy. He refuses to acknowledge that it exists.

At the party, I consumed too much alcohol and too many cigarettes with S. before deciding it might be time to leave. I called Re-Boyfriend to make sure he was awake.

He answered with a bit of an indignant tone. (You know, because why would I ever suspect him of falling asleep?) Things were looking good. So good, that I developed a false confidence and did not call during the cab ride. A rookie mistake.

When I got to his apartment building and buzzed, I got nothing. I buzzed again and waited for the little hum that tells me I have been granted access to the building. The little hum did not come.

I leaned on the buzzer as I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Re-Boyfriend's number. I got voice mail.

It was 4am, I was drunk, and I was pissed off.

I sat down on his stoop to think. The choices were obvious. I could give up and go home, or I could pick the lock.

As I stood there, fumbling around with a bobby pin (I do not actually know how to pick locks of any kind, a fact which escaped my drunken logic) I heard “Hey. Hey!”

I turned around, prepared to explain myself to whatever rent-a-cop was stopping me. Instead, I saw a car parked on the street with a pretty blonde woman leaning out the passenger window, calling to me.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She was clearly wasted.

“Nothing…” I may have been wasted too, but it takes more than alcohol to remove a New Yorker’s suspicion of people, especially those who speak to strangers.

“You know any good places to go? We’re from Boston. You know where to party?” I looked past the woman to the driver’s seat where a not nearly as attractive bald man sat, calmly watching his girlfriend (wife? friend?) talk to me.

“No…” I dialed Re-Boyfriend’s number again.

“You don’t know where any good places are? You must know some.”

“Sorry, I really don’t.” I could feel myself sobering up fast. It was unpleasant.

“What are you doing?” I assumed she was trying to sound friendly, but her voice just sounded drunk and desperate.

“Trying to get into my friend’s place.” Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. Rule #1 of being a woman in New York was to never admit that you were alone. “He’s coming down right now,” I added.

“So, you never party? You never go out? You look like you party.” She giggled and sort of wiggled her eyebrows at me. What the fuck?

“I mean, I go out, I just don’t really know where to go exactly…”

“You want to come with us while we look for a place to party?”

“No.” I really wanted to exit the entire conversation, but leaving Re-Boyfriend’s stoop required stepping closer to the car. In retrospect it was highly unlikely that the car would have followed me or that I would have been the victim of some friendly kidnapping scheme, but I can be a little paranoid. Plus the woman was hanging out of the window, hair flipping about as her arms made wild gestures. It wasn’t a sight one wanted to walk towards.

I called Re-Boyfriend again while pressing the buzzer with my other hand. This continued for a good five minutes. I would call Re-Boyfriend, press the buzzer and politely say “No,” as the woman asked if I wanted to party, knew where to party or just liked to party in general.

Finally, she seemed to take the hint.

“Okay.” Her enthusiasm had waned and she was beginning to look disappointed. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She folded herself back into the car. The bald man leaned over and whispered something in her ear right before she popped back out again.

“You want to have a threesome?” she called. Just then my cell phone rang. It was Re-Boyfriend.

“Hello? Hold on,” I told him.

“Not tonight, thank you,” I called to the car, smiling, my first instinct being to act politely and decline the way one would an invitation to a garden party. She shrugged and a few seconds later the car drove off.

“Who are you talking to?” Re-Boyfriend’s voice demanded.

“You let me in RIGHT NOW. People are propositioning me on your street because you’re an asshole narcoleptic.”

He let me in and I told him the whole story. While apologetic about the whole sleeping thing, he did not seem impressed by my story of the threesome proposition.

In fact, all he really said was, “Was she hot?”

Over the next few days, this question was to be repeated with every guy friend I told the story to. Followed by “Well, did you do it?”

NO.

Agent Provocateur

This afternoon I went to Agent Provocateur on Mercer Street, an expensive lingerie store where most of the bras are over a hundred dollars. I had to see what a hundred dollar bra would make my boobs look like. (The answer was "uncomfortable".)

As soon as I had tried on the first bra (incidentally, a very sheer pink bra) I heard the call “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” I replied.

In all my experiences shopping, this has been the end of the exchange.

At Agent Provocateur, this was only the beginning.

A sales girl yanked back the curtain of my dressing room. (Note: It is a small store. The dressing room opens onto the entire sales floor).

“Ooooo…that’s cute,” she said as she stared at my boobs in the mirror.

“Thank you,” I said, for lack of a better response. I mean, she was complimenting her own merchandise and not my boobs, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“Maybe we need to tighten the straps up a little.”

Before I could say anything, she was adjusting the straps on the bra.

“That’s better. Very cute.” And then she was gone, closing the curtain behind her.

Determined not to be a prude and run out of the store, I tried on my second bra.

“Everything okay in there?” a girl called, the instant the back had been hooked. How did she know?

The curtain was opened. I was gawked at.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said one.

“That is nice,” said another.

The curtain was closed.

The curtain was opened.

“It’s a little large in the cup area, maybe you could go down a size? It’s still very nice though.”

The curtain was closed, then immediately opened.

Honestly, the entire existence of the curtain was a sham. Why didn’t they just have people try things on in one big room? It would remove the element of surprise since you would be able to see when the sales women were approaching rather than being ambushed every five seconds.

“Do you want the matching panties?” yet another sales woman politely inquired.

“I actually have them, thanks.” But that wasn’t enough. She stared at me in the mirror until I held up the yellow and pink thong to show her I had not been lying. I had the panties.

The curtain was closed. I put down the panties.

Did she seriously think I was going to take off my pants, and navigate the always difficult issue of Do I Try These Panties Over My Panties or Do I Want To Actually See How They Look in front of three sales girls?

Besides of which, I hadn’t shaved this morning, not thinking my day of pant-wearing and no sex called for it. Evidently, I had been wrong.

I threw back on my original bra and shirt as quickly as I could, lest my boobs be exposed to the world, or worse, the granny bra I had worn to work.

Then I ran.

It reminded me of the time I went with my mother to Bergdorf Goodman to buy a dress for a wedding. A sales lady ran in and out of our dressing area the entire time with no heed as to who was in what state of undress. Due to a door and standard knocking practices, I was not uncomfortable in Bergdorf’s at all.

Still, it was a different shopping experience than one would find in, say, a Banana Republic.

This begs the question: Are rich people just better at being naked?

Recently, Re-Boyfriend has been working ridiculously late hours. This is not a problem since I actually like having time to myself to go to the gym. Or sit on my ass watching reality television and thinking about the gym. Whichever.

The problem is that when I see him he’s all “My job!” and then “MY JOB.” And sometimes, “my job my job my job MY JOB.”

My response always falls into one of two categories. An example of the first would be, “I had a big day too. Me and Office Slacker rated departments according to attractiveness and publicity won. But only by a point.” An example of the second is “You’ll be fine. You are SO smart. Wow.”

Sometimes, he lifts out of his funk due to the charming nature of my comments. Most of the time he does not, because my comments aren’t that charming.

If this were S., I would get her drunk and we would eat fries while debating whether or not her boss is having an affair. Then she would feel better and I would feel like I had helped.

Re-Boyfriend drinks as a matter of course, I have yet to discover a food he truly loves (other than hard-boiled eggs, which seem like a dubious comfort food at best) and I don't think he really cares whether or not his boss is having an affair.

Food, drinks and gossip being the trifecta of my standard brand of comfort, I can be of no help in this situation.

This makes me sad because I miss fun Re-Boyfriend. And also because of unselfish reasons that I am sure I have deep down inside.

Q: How do you talk to a girl about her weight?

A: Don’t. She doesn't have any of this "weight". She is like air.


“I have a potbelly,” I announced, looking at myself in Re-Boyfriend's mirror.

“You’re tiny.” Re-Boyfriend said, in a somewhat patronizing tone. “You know you’re tiny.”

“I know I’m tiny,” I said indignantly, “But I also know that I have a little pot belly and I want it gone.” I don’t like being spoken to as if I have issues.

“You don’t have a potbelly.”

“Yes I do, don’t lie, I know I do.”

“But it’s like the most perfect pot belly ever. It’s like in Pulp Fiction when the girl says 'I just want a little, sexy pot belly,' or whatever. That’s what you have. A perfect little curve.”

He stepped forward and put his hand on my stomach, then slid it up my shirt. This effectively ended the discussion, but the seeds of an obsession had been planted. (Clearly.)

There are really only two acceptable body shapes for girls. Skinny and flat-chested, or rounder with big boobs. (Or skinny with big boobs but I prefer to believe those girls do not exist and are only wearing padded bras like me, or starving themselves into an unnatural state just to make the rest of us feel bad).

I am of the skinny and flat-chested variety, which means that I can eat whatever I want and gain neither weight nor boobs.

Unfortunately, sometimes I take the whole “I can eat whatever I want” thing to an illogical extreme, and begin eating hamburgers washed down with ice cream. Not only is this disgusting, this also gives me “a little, sexy potbelly,” which is unacceptable when my thing is supposed to be unalterable skinniness.

If I had cleavage I could try to feel womanly and curvy, but as it is, any weight gain just makes me feel fat.

The Lesson:
DON'T EVER TELL A GIRL HER FAT IS SEXY.

You must deny its existence to the bitter end. If you do not she will:
a) write about it in her blog
b) eat french fries three meals in a row, just to be defiant
and
c) decide she is never getting naked ever again. EVER.

Update: Will probably be getting naked tonight. Flesh is weak.

Office Slacker has the tendency to do such things as sigh the sigh of the truly over-worked when his sole activity for the day has been to move a box approximately ten feet. Though I adore him the way I would a pothead older brother, his overt laziness strikes even me as ridiculous at times.

“It’s really hard being you, isn’t it?” I once asked.

“You don’t understand. When you work all day you get used to it. After reading Gawker for hours, it’s just that much harder to move.”

I rolled my eyes.

Then today, after a grueling morning of checking Gawker and reading Page Six online, I was forced to Fed-Ex one small envelope containing exactly five sheets of paper.

I feel utterly exhausted.

Recently my crazy reading, usually stable, if not flat-lining, has climbed to a level not seen since high school. Ever since the want-to-move-in-sort-of-hypothetical-but-maybe-not speech given by Re-Boyfriend, every word and action suddenly seems fraught subtext. And on my end, the subtext is “I’m crazy.”

CB: I have to change before we go out tonight.
I feel ugly and restless.

Re-B: No, don’t go home! You look fine.

CB: I have to go home, I want to change.
Fine? I look fine? Ohmigod I really do need to change.

Re-B: You’re right. I would be embarrassed to be seen with you.

CB: Hahahahahaha.
FUCK YOU.

Re-B: What are you going to wear?

CB: I don’t know…you want to pick something out?
You want to pick out my clothing? You think you own me?

Re-B: Not really.

CB: But I don’t know what to wear.
Why won’t you just tell me? If I come back over in something you hate, you won’t tell me I look nice and then I’ll want to cry and ohmigod I think I might cry right now. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. WHY ARE WE FIGHTING?

Re-B: Just come here. [Pats adjacent area on sofa.]

CB: Okay.
But I don’t want to watch television.

[Sits on sofa as Re-B slides an arm around her shoulders and resumes watching television.]

Five minutes pass.

Re-B: Come on. Let’s go for a walk.

CB: I don’t really feel like it.
When you want to go for a walk, I have to go for a walk? Maybe I want to watch television now.

[CB pouts.]

Re-B: Why are you being like this? What’s wrong?

CB: Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t feel like going for a walk.
Can’t I just not want to go for a walk? God.

Re-B: Okay. You want to stay here and watch a movie?

CB: No. I want to go home and change.
And if I sit here one second longer I am going to blurt out that I want to break up with you which I know is crazy talk but I CAN’T CONTROL IT and ohmigod WHAT IF I AM PREGNANT.

Re-B: Fine. [Retracts arm from shoulder]

CB: Are you mad? Why are you mad?
Ohmigod he is going to break up with me.

Re-B: No, you’re just being—I don’t understand what’s wrong.

CB: Nothing’s wrong.
He’s totally going to break up with me. I will die.

Re-B: Okay. [Pulls in CB for a hug]

CB (muffled, into Re-B’s armpit): I have to go home and change.
Stop smothering me!



The full realization of my craziness came last night during dinner with my mother. As I enumerated Re-Boyfriend’s various flaws, my voice was raised, my arms were flailing and I was in full-on entertaining-but-ultimately-true-tirade mode when I exclaimed “And he is LUCKY that I am so LAID-BACK!”

I paused, sensing something was off about the delivery of that statement. My mom looked at me and we both started laughing hysterically.

I really used to be laid-back though. I don’t know what happened.

A Small Victory

Silent Man and I had to work on a project together this past week. To my utter consternation he was actually charming.

I left our first one-on-one conversation thinking that we might become, if not office buddies, at least more friendly than we had been. Perhaps we could even be co-workers who engaged in actual conversation. (As opposed to co-workers who continually exchange the same stock remarks about the weather, including, but not limited to “It’s so hard to dress for spring,” and “Wow, is it hot.")

A few hours after this fantasy formed, I passed him in the hall and received his patented blank stare in response to my “Hello!” Apparently, once official charm time was over, it was back to ignoring me in the halls and looking the other way in the elevator. I finally decided to give up my pursuit of Silent Man’s hello. No progress was being made and there’s nothing like talking to yourself to make you feel retarded.

But yesterday my moment of triumph came.

As I passed him in one of our more narrow hallways, I said nothing, but offered a half smile. I made it about half a step beyond him when I heard a faint but distinct, “Hi.” I whipped my head around to see if he could have been addressing someone else, but it was clear he had been speaking to me.

I continued on my way, realizing five minutes later that I had never responded, making this the first time that Silent Man has said hello to me in the hallway and I have been silent. HA!

Victory.

Five Corporate Phrases Explained

Going forward

Example: “Going forward, would you like to receive weekly updates?”

Generally replaces “From now on,” in an attempt to convey a “Don’t look to the past for answers, look to the future!” attitude rather than a sheepish "Oops, I meant to do that, I totally won't mess up next time" subtext.

Literally

Example: “This product will literally be flying off the shelves,” or “We need to literally gather our troops for this one.”

No relation to the first, (and some might say correct) meaning of the word, “literally” can be inserted into any sentence for emphasis.


Shoot

Example: “Why don’t you just shoot me an e-mail with that info?” or “I’m going to shoot over to the deli. Want anything?”

Used to convey the utmost speediness and efficiency. Prized workers do not merely send or walk, they SHOOT!


Micro-manager

Example: “My boss was nice enough but she was a micro-manager.”

Most commonly, but not exclusively, used to mean “anal-retentive bitch,” micro-manager is the only accepted criticism of a boss. Other known meanings are “pervy creep who licked my neck at the Christmas party,” and “unbearably, heart-breakingly dumb wench who once vomited on herself at a trade show.”


Recap

Example: “Let’s meet tomorrow to recap what was decided on,” or “Just to recap, Sally will be handling the information flow for this one.”

If animals in the wild are driven by hunger and the need to procreate, corporate managers are driven by the need to have meetings. Useless meetings please them because it allows for a meeting (YAY!) with none of the stress of actually preparing for it or thinking during it. Barring an actual recap meeting, recapping during a “normal” meeting can also be quite satisfying, allowing the speaker to hold the floor with no requirement of actually having something to contribute.



Sometimes I try to incorporate these phrases into my speech. It doesn't really work.

Re-Boyfriend always surprises me with his complete and utter sappiness. Small dogs, children, rainbows—it takes very little to make him smile and glow with the joy of cuteness. Then he turns to me as if I too am supposed to glow or just bask in his glow or at least smile.

I can usually muster the smile.

Generally, I refrain from commenting on Re-Boyfriend's strangely sentimental ways since they are at least partly endearing, but last night I was pushed over the edge.

We had met up with another couple at a local bar.

“I introduced them,” he whispered to me proudly.

“That’s nice,” I whispered back.

When the girl gave the boy a kiss on the cheek, Re-Boyfriend turned to me with his standard Feel-the-Glow face. Then he pinched my arm and actually half-pointed as he grinned, clearly communicating the thought “Look! Look! Love! Isn’t it amazing?”

“You are such a sap,” I told him, half-laughing.

He looked momentarily taken aback, then smiled and leaned in.

“Yeah, but I don’t fuck you like one.”

Well put.

I have just made an ass of myself in front of the only person in the office with whom I feel truly at ease, previously and subsequently referred to as Office Slacker. (This is because he both hates and does not care about his job to a degree that rivals mine).

“So I was watching television last night,” OS began, before launching into the gory details of an institution where people could pay to torture anonymous victims.

I sat, staring, making little “Oooo” and “Ahhh” noises.

At first he looked a little confused by my rapt attention--usually our conversations are carried on with long pauses as one or both of us faces a computer screen.

Then I said “I can’t believe they would show all that on the television,” and Slacker's face lit up in both disappointment and realization.

“CB, it’s a movie. The movie Hostel.”

I smiled dumbly for lack of any response that would save me.

“What’s wrong with you?” OS looked genuinely worried.

“Well, I did think it was a little strange,” I said defensively. “That’s why I was so interested. And you said you saw it on television.”

“So?”

“Hostel is a movie,” I told him witheringly.

In the future, I must be more careful not to appear stupid in front of my only office friend.

The Pink T-Shirt

I have worn the pink t-shirt every night since it was presented to me in all its glory.

At first it seemed like a fun, naughty game called “Make CB Look Like a Twelve Year Old Prostitute,” but it soon became a bit repetitive.

Last night I was ready to climb into bed sans glitter when Re-Boyfriend whispered “Why don’t you put on your little t-shirt?”

“I don’t know where it is,” I lied. I had wedged it between his dresser and the wall.

“I’ll help you look,” he murmured sexily, before he got out of bed, dropped to the floor and began crawling around in his boxers.

I wore the pink t-shirt to bed and began, quite irrationally, to imagine a life spent living with Re-Boyfriend, wearing the t-shirt every night.

We had just taken a shower. I was sitting on the edge of Re-Boyfriend’s toilet, lid down, combing my hair while he shaved.

“So where do you want to eat tonight?” he asked, scraping at his chin.

I started to answer, then realized what a picture of domesticity we were. It made me uncomfortable.

“I should probably do this outside,” I said, waving my brush as I got up.

"No." He looked at me in the mirror. “I like this.”

I had just sat back down on the toilet when Re-Boyfriend blurted, “John was asking if we wanted to live together.”

“Oh?” Excuse me?

“Actually he suggested more of a ‘Three’s Company’ sort of thing. He wants to move into a place with Dave and me and maybe Steve. And your lease is up soon anyway so you and I could share a bedroom there.”

“That’s really sweet!” I was momentarily distracted from the larger implications of Living Together by the image of me running around an expensive apartment with rich boys, critiquing their outfits and watching television on a flat screen. I smiled.

“Or you could just move in here. My roommate’s moving out soon and we could turn his room into a study or a home office or something.” He paused to examine my face. “Or we could move into his room and use my room now as the extra one since it’s bigger. We’d just repaint his. Or we could knock down the wall in between the rooms and make one big bedroom.”

He finally registered my confused expression and seemed perplexed by it.

“I mean, I guess we could keep the two bedrooms if you really wanted to. But then we wouldn’t have a study.”

Knocking down walls? Home offices? Painting?

“It’s just an idea,” he said defensively, after I failed to jump up and down yelling “Yes! Wonderful! Yes!”

“I would have to think about it,” I said after an uncomfortable silence.

“Okay.” He turned his full attention back to shaving and I finished combing my hair in his bedroom.

There are so many factors—will I be able to sleep, where will my clothes go, what if we break-up, can I re-decorate, is this a financially motivated merger, what if I want to watch My Super Sweet Sixteen with a clay mask on while eating peanut butter and talking to my mom...the list goes on.

It is exhausting just thinking about thinking about it.

Maybe he was not serious?

Corporate Lunch

One of the things I hate most about my job is the mingling requirement.

Every birthday a tray of doughnuts is plopped down by the fax machine and people gather around it at the appointed time. If you’re popular, there may be some orange juice. If not, it’s water from the water cooler.

Why we persist in this tradition completely escapes me since the conversation is always so awkward as to completely cancel out any joy experienced from the presence of free food. The “celebration” invariably turns into a game of chicken, with everyone determined not to be the first one to leave. We stand around eyeing each other, getting powdered sugar on our fingers and saying things like “Mmmmm…these doughnuts are good,” and “Krispy Kreme doughnuts are really sweet,” until finally someone mumbles something about work and darts away. Five minutes later everyone is back at their desks.

With fifteen minute birthday celebrations being as awkward as they are, I am a little nervous about the fact that I have to go to lunch with co-workers today. In general, I hate the idea of a boss taking his employees to lunch. I understand that it is intended to be a nice gesture, but lunch is my one period of free time during the work day. Then when it is stolen, I have to say “Thank you.”

To make matters worse Perky is coming, as well as outside clients. This means the entire event will turn into a small talk competition since no one wants to be labeled "The Quiet One" or accused of not being nice to customers.

The last time I went to a lunch like this, I spent most of the time staring at Perky as she waxed philosophical about her desire to hold a baby koala. Since I cannot talk about things like that for very long without wanting to hit myself, I consistently lose the small talk game.

I am actually dreading lunch with a passion that I feel is abnormal.

The Present

“I got you something to sleep in when you’re here,” Re-Boyfriend told me, looking both proud and bashful.

That sounded promising. I envisioned a button down pajama shirt with matching bottoms. Or maybe something lacy and sexy. Or maybe one of those weird thigh-length silk nighty things.

A small pink object suddenly flew at my face. I removed it from my head and held it awkwardly in front of me. It was a tiny pink t-shirt, with a large glittery image of a cartoon geisha girl. When I gave it an exploratory scratch, silver glitter fell to the floor.

“Put it on,” he said. I did.

“Ooooo..” The next thing I knew I was wearing only the t-shirt and we were having sex on the couch. Then I ran around the apartment in my underwear and the t-shirt. I drank wine in the t-shirt. I watched television in the t-shirt. I had more sex in the t-shirt.

I thought the t-shirt was worn out.

But when I woke up the next morning, naked, Re-Boyfriend looked a little disappointed.

“You didn’t wear the t-shirt to bed.” I looked at him a little oddly.

“We’ll put in a hook right there,” he pointed to a space on his wall, “And you can hang it there.”

I do believe this is seriously supposed to be my nightly pajama/sex top.

Re-Boyfriend's Return

Re-Boyfriend is getting back tonight. I have baked cupcakes that say “Welcome Back." (One letter per cupcake. Obviously it would have been more impressive if I had written Welcome Back on every single cupcake, but there was no way I was going to do that.)

A Digression:
The cupcakes are really tasty. I know that because writing “Welcome Back” only utilized eleven cupcakes, which left thirteen for me to eat, which of course I did.

Somewhere around the fifth cupcake I considered throwing the rest out, but then I thought There’s no way I could eat all of them. I've got one or two more to go, tops. Then around the ninth one I accepted that I would, in fact, be eating all of them.

And I may or may not have eaten the exclamation point that may or may not have been part of the original “Welcome Back” message.

And back to the point:
I am also dressing up as Margot Tennenbaum. Though most of the time I think I’m a pretty crappy girlfriend, sometimes I know I’m awesome, even when I feel fat and full of frosting.

Now I have to go practice my smile in preparation for the moment I unwrap whatever ridiculously inappropriate gift he has bought for me this time.

S.'s Not Birthday

We gathered with the upper-eastsiders and the tourists who had come to feel like upper-eastsiders at the rather pretentious steakhouse S. had picked. (We were the downtowners who had put on our best approximation of finery and were fooling no one.)

After a few glasses of wine, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and whipped out my little calling card which I had had the foresight to bring with me—who doesn’t like drunk dialing?—and called Re-Boyfriend.

“I am very drunk,” I told him.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I think the waiter is hitting on me.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, when I asked for a second bottle of white wine for the table, he asked ‘Do you want a straw with that?’”

Silence. Then laughter.

“CB, he’s not hitting on you, he thinks you’re an alcoholic.”

“It wasn’t like I was the only one drinking it. There are eight people here!”

More laughter.

“And I look really good tonight!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Shutup.”

“I miss you.”

S. came over and collected me.

“Come on, we’re going to meet up with Sam’s boyfriend.”

“I thought you’d be crying by now,” I said as I allowed myself to be put in a cab.

“Why? It. Is. Not. My. Birthday.” S. held up a finger warningly.

“Sorry. Do you think the waiter thought I was a drunk?"

"He thought we were all drunks. Do you know how many bottles of wine we ordered? And Rachel told him he was 'too hot for the wait business.'"

"Yeah..." I hate it when Re-Boyfriend is right. "Maybe we should have told him it was your birthday."

"It. Is. Not. My. Birthday." S. looked like she might get angry.

"Sorry! Sorry."

All in all, for a girl that had two twenty-first birthdays, S. handled the transition to twenty-five very well. And I am still impressed with my ability to make an international call when drunk. (And on my first try!)